


The Tiny Victory

by VS_Brewster



Series: The Pearl [2]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VS_Brewster/pseuds/VS_Brewster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta and Katniss' nights on the train during the Victory Tour.  Follow-on from Extension of My Usefulness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tiny Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters and universe are the property of Suzanne Collins. I'm just filling in gaps.

Under her silent guidance, I learn the feel of Katniss' body during the next few nights. Her hands guide mine at first, and together we map her breasts, her back, her ass. She slides them under the shirt she's wearing, pushes them down from their natural resting place at the small of her back.

At first I worry about touching her, about doing something she doesn't want. I like to think of myself as honourable, but I am not made of stone. I have loved her for years. I'm starting to understand that I have wanted her as well. Every moment we spend together in the day makes it clear that I am not what she wants. She is civil, but her civility is only luke warm. She has more important things on her mind. Even if she didn't, I doubt she would replace her worried thoughts with ones of me.

I check her face as my palms, roughened by years of burns, smooth over her warm skin. Her dark eyes watch me in the grey half-light of the compartment, the whites of her eyes made bright by the moonlight. This silent vigilance after her hands have withdrawn is her permission. They burn bright with lust, even if it's not directed at me.

It does not take much encouragement, that first time my fingertips brush the under-swell of her breast, to continue upwards. Katniss only guides my hands, she does not direct my movement. Once I am where she wants me, I am on my own. I cup her breast, a handful of softness with the hard peak of her nipple grazing my palm. I touch her gently. She likes that. She likes it when I feather fingertips over her hard nipples, when they tickle down the side of her breast. Then I move on to massaging her breast, playing with her nipple. I roll it under my thumb, feeling it spring back to its firm point, then pinch it gently between my fingers. This she likes that as well. Her eyelashes lower, her breathing is shorter. And despite the lack of attention I'm receiving, my body's reaction mirrors hers as arousal courses through me.

Every night she wants my touch, I know when it is time. When she is close as she can get, her hips pressed flush against me, I know to slide my hand down. She does not need to guide me there. I have become an expert at teasing out the hard little nub that brings her so much pleasure. I know now how to touch her, how to read her moods.

Sometimes I want to use this knowledge to draw it out longer, but I do not think she'd approve. She is fierce in these moods, her eyes sparking like flint, and I know I am dealing with the wild Katniss that, like a feral cat, does not want to be teased. But it is drawing out her pleasure that I think about when it's my turn – for the brief time when I can still think about anything, before the pleasure of her touch and knowing that it is her touch, overcome any coherent thought. It is manipulating her body like paint on a canvas, mixing and swirling the colours of sensation, until she is overcome.

When Katniss comes, she is beautiful and tragic. She frowns. I love this about her.

When Katniss makes me come, she watches me intently right to the end. I know because I once made an effort to keep watching her back. As the pleasure crested inside of me, I thought she might kiss me. But we never kiss. There are too many memories of false kisses. The action has been taken from us by the Capitol, and neither of us wants to think about the Games in these silent, dream-like moments. They are ours, they are our escape.

But one time, when she has her little hand wrapped tight around my erection, and is stroking me slowly the way I like, I remember one kiss – the kiss in the cave, when her head was bleeding and I had nearly recovered. I remember the one time her tongue flickered out to test my lips, and the heat of her mouth. I remember my tongue chasing that soft flick, the sudden stab of concern that I had missed something wonderful that would never happen again. But our tongues did touch, a slow tentative stroke, one against the other. This is what I remember when Katniss speeds up and the colours star to burst behind my eyelids, and I cannot think of anything else.

The silent exchange of scalding touches becomes our nightly ritual. We never sleep through the night. One of us always wakes. If it is Katniss, I awake to the feel of her fingers grazing over naked skin. My hips or my thighs, just once the half-hard shaft of my cock. If it is me, I am almost always awoken by her tossing or calling out in the throes of a nightmare, and soothe her awake. I hold her close against me until her frantic breathing calms. These are the times when she moves my hands lower, or higher, or under.

I have once slid my fingers inside of her. The heat was almost too much to bear, and I could feel the twitching squeeze of her muscles as she began to orgasm. When it was my turn, I tried to imagine I was sliding inside of her as she stroked me. But I couldn't quite picture it.

The best night is after we have visited Four. Part of the day was spent on the beach. We both felt wet sand between our toes for the first time, and balmy heat and salted air. We held hands as foamy waves lapped at our toes. I could almost believe she took my hand for us, and not for the cameras.

The night that follows is bright, and I can see Katniss more clearly than normal. We both wake, but neither of us has had nightmares. When I look down at her, I can see every fine detail: the fringe of her eyelashes, and the flecks in her eyes, the creases at the corners of her mouth where she used to smile properly, before the Capitol made sure that all her smiles were false.

She does not need to direct me to touch her. I seduce her body, draw out her arousal in the ways she has taught me work best. By the time my fingers slide between her legs, she has turned her face into my neck, breathing raggedly against my skin. I do not urge her to orgasm, as I normally do. I tease over the little nub, touching it too softly. When she spreads her legs, one crossing over mine, my hard cock throbs in response. I use my fingers to spread her fleshy slit, still slowly and gently circling the glossy pearl. I am wondering – hoping – that if I tease her long enough she will speak. I want her to ask me for more, to prove that she wants me and what I do to her. It's a selfish notion, and she is too clever to fall for it.

Her little hand slides over the head of my cock. Her feather-light touch runs lower, fingers gently lifting and cupping my balls. My eyes flutter shut. We have never touched each other together before, and the sensation is in intense. As she wraps her hand around my cock and begins to stroke steadily, I can't hold my resolve and flick her little nub firmly and quickly.

But I am rewarded for my efforts. As her body tenses and her hand stutters on my prick, she arches her back and pushes her hips up into me, about to come. And as her body jerks, hand tightening almost painfully around me, she releases one soft mew of pleasure against my neck.

This is all I need, and with an answering groan of my own I feel the pleasure inside me snap, and hot semen splashes over my belly.

The tiny victory, the sound of her pleasure wrung out from her iron self-control, is a precious gem I keep with me always. I turn it over in my mind in idle moments. I catch glimmers of it when she meets my eye on the stage in the Districts, or across dinner, or when Effie is giving a lecture. It is what makes touching her and not having her almost bearable.


End file.
